


Let Slip The Dogs of War

by hiddencait



Series: Shield and Sorcery [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I mean obviously considering it's a Clint/Coulson fic, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Oops I created a 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddencait/pseuds/hiddencait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Cry 'Havoc!', and let slip the dogs of war."<br/>-William Shakespeare "Julius Caesar"</p><p>Phil is captured. He'll escape with the aid of a Hound and a Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Slip The Dogs of War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sealcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealcat/gifts).



> So this story fought me tooth and nail the whole time I was writing it. I had a very clear idea pop into my head after reading Sealcat's request, but getting that image down on paper was a little difficult. Also the shipper portion of this story is damn near negligible even with an established pairing. My brain - IDEK. I'm still really pleased with what I came up with though, especially considering I managed to get Clint/Phil AND Bucky & Phil into this. Oh, and I've accidentally created a verse. Oops? 
> 
> Thanks to [name redacted] for the last minute beta - sorry it took me so long to get to you!

_They have taken the king._

That single thought pounded through Duke Phillip Coulson’s mind along with the splitting headache as he clawed his way back to consciousness. His memories were scattered at best, but the image of Nicholas’s limp body being dragged away between a pair of Hydran soldiers was crystal clear.

Phil had failed.

He forced himself not to scream his rage aloud, not yet knowing where he was and who might be alerted to the sound. Nick might be missing, but his old friend and king would not want his absence to cause Phil to place himself in further danger. With that in mind, Phil cautiously opened his eyes to survey the room in which he’d woken. The stone of the walls was damp in the corners, and he shivered a little as he realized how chill the floor he’d sprawled across was. There was nothing in the room but a single rickety-looking bucket in the corner and a manacled chain bolted to the farthest wall from the heavy wooden door to Phil’s left. A tiny window was set in the wall behind him, barely large enough to let in light, but nowhere near wide enough for Phil to fit through.

 _Not an escape route, then,_ he thought. That left the chain, the bucket, and the door. Phil gingerly sat up, pausing each time the vertigo almost caused him to vomit. Finally sitting up fully and leaning carefully back against the wall, he managed to get a decent look at himself. Taking stock of injuries was his first priority: just judging from the dizziness and headache, a concussion was likely. Then there was the way it hurt to breathe with a knife blade in his side with each inhale: likely a cracked rib. Probably not broken, he hoped. He lifted each arm carefully and rotated it, noting no breaks or sprains. He must have fallen properly, though damned if he could remember hitting the ground. His legs seemed in similar shape with only a little bit of stiffness, likely due to lying on the cold stone for however long he’d been unconscious. Overall, it was better than he’d expected. Pierce wasn’t known for his mercy with his captives.

Phil tried not to consider why Pierce had left him relatively healthy.

Instead he forced himself unsteadily to his feet, taking as long as he needed to get there safely and trying not to let impatience convince him to move faster than his body could handle. He made his way over to the door first. It was locked of course, and from the outside, but, and Phil tried not to get too excited at the fact, the hinges were on his side of the door. And they were in appalling shape; it shouldn’t take much to pull the pins free. At least not as long as he had an edge to work with. He turned back and made his shaky way over to the bucket, wrinkling his nose at little at the smell. It was empty, thank all the gods, but the stench from previous use definitely lingered. It was the design of the bucket, though, that was perfect for his needs: made of several slats of work with a rough metal ring around the top and bottom to keep it in the proper shape.

Phil lifted the bucket, opening facing away from him, and swung it sharply against the wall, aiming for the edges between several of the slats. The strike echoed far more loudly than he expected, and he paused waiting for the sound of footsteps signaling a guard coming to investigate. None came, and Phil went back to his task. It took a few more good hits, just barely what his strength could manage, but the bucket finally collapsed inward, the bottom ring sliding free.

 _Step one complete_ , he thought, panting with the effort he’d expended so far. Ring in hand, he turned back to the door. The top hinge was going to be a problem with the injury to his ribs, but maybe, if the lock on the other side of the door wasn’t too large and the hinges were rusted enough…

Removing the bottom pin from the hinge would at least be worth the effort. He’d need to remove, either way. He knelt down, using the wall for support and then carefully wedged the bottom edge of the ring into the hinge then pulled upwards with all of his might. The pin resisted at first, but finally, thank the gods, _finally_ , it pulled up and free. Now if he could just try to tilt the door, perhaps he’d manage to get just enough space to crawl through.

He was reaching for the edge of the door when something scratched on the other side, and he heard a low whine. Then something shoved hard at the same corner he’d hoped to pull inward. Phil debated the chances of some sort of trap, but decided it was worth the risk and leaned forward again, tucking his fingers into the gap the mystery helper’s shoving had caused. Phil heaved backwards, feeling the door start to wrench on the one remaining hinge. Sure enough it was as damaged as he’d hoped it would be, and bent against the strain he'd placed on it. He didn’t bother trying to look for his helper until the door was leaning as far as he could get it to. Then and only then did he glance through the opening to the hallway on the other side.

It was a dog, he realized with shock. A large mutt of some time, probably of mastiff descent. As if it had been waiting for him to acknowledge its presence and give permission, the large beast whuffed and crawled through the opening and into the cell.

Then it stood to its not insignificant height and shook itself all over as if to put its fur back into place. Phil froze as he noticed the distinctive black collar fastened about the creature’s neck. One he’d seen far too many times before.

The Hounds had been one of Pierce’s more disturbing projects, in Phil’s opinion. Granted, turning soldiers into animals to spy behind enemy lines wasn’t anything new, but few mages had ever taken the spell to the level that Pierce had. His Hounds trained only in shifted form and even slept as dogs in kennels, all curled up together like so many puppies. Pierce had always claimed those soldiers were given time in their true human shape every day, but now, with his other atrocities out on the light, Phil had to doubt most of his claims.

In truth, the Hounds were no more than slaves once the spell took hold. Pierce claimed, too, that all of those who underwent the procedure were volunteers, only the most loyal hoping to fill a need for their leader. Or their master, more accurately.

This one, though. Phil had a sinking suspicion that this Hound before him was no volunteer. Few men could recognize the human features that remained with a Hound after the shift, but Phil had spent a great portion of his life recently overseeing young idiots in the Mage Academy. Accidental transformation didn’t happen often, but it was definitely more often than he liked. Figuring out which student had managed to trap themselves in the form of a bird or horse or, on one truly unfortunate event, a fish, had been a necessary skill, and Phil had grown adept at such identification.

It was a skill he’d rather have done without; the fish, in particular, had been more than a little disturbing to see a grown man’s long mustache in a catfish’s whiskers. But now, now that skill might do him some good. The Hound moved into the faint light from the high window, sandy fur and wrinkled forehead coming more clearly into view. On those features alone, Phil might have been able to identify the man locked inside the mutt, but it was the sorrowful eyes that convinced Phil he was right about who the Hound really was.

Never mind that his chest ached at the recognition.

“Cli-” he began, only to cough at the dryness of his throat and mouth, “Clint?” The dog whined and inched closer, tail tentatively wagging. Phil felt his stomach plummet at the confirmation of his theory. The archer had gone missing a few weeks prior to Garrett’s reveal as a traitor and subsequent kidnapping of both the king and Phil, himself. Some of the soldiers in Clint’s squad had thrown around accusations of desertion, but Phil had never doubted Clint’s loyalty, both to the crown and to… and to his lover. Clint would never have left without telling Phil good-bye.

To see him here finally alive and somewhat well judging by the way he limped on his back leg was a bittersweet relief. Knowing he’d been in Pierce’s hands all this time and had been forced into this body that was not his own, hurt Phil every bit as much as it had likely hurt Clint.

“I’m sorry,” Phil managed to croak. “I’m sorry we didn’t find you.”

The Hound whined again, this time ending with a faint growl and a shake of his head, long jowls flapping about in a way that would have been comical in any other situation. Phil bit his lip on the additional apologies that wanted to slip free. Clint clearly didn’t want to hear them. The dog cocked its head for a moment, and Phil guessed he was listening for any guards. Though how Clint would have slipped past those same guards, Phil couldn’t guess. His lover didn’t exactly make the most inconspicuous Hound.

After a long moment, Clint whuffed softly and gently took Phil’s sleeve between his teeth, tugging towards the door.

“Time to leave, huh?” Phil murmured and was rewarded with a wag of the Clint-Hound’s tail. “Let’s hope we don’t run into any surprises.”

His hand resting on Clint’s shoulders as much for comfort as for balance, Phil let the Hound lead the way back through the door and out into the hallway, the gap at the floor just barely large enough for Phil’s shoulders to fit through as he crawled. He still wasn’t sure how Clint had managed it; the mutt was massive, easily tall enough for Phil to lean on him comfortably.

There was little sound to be heard out in the halls. With every step they took, Phil expected to hear shouts of alarm and discovery, but none came. Clint seemed to know where he was going, so Phil just focused on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping one hand still buried in Clint’s scruff, and the other trailing the wall as they traveled down corridor after corridor and down a flight or two of stairs.

He heard a growl and forced his weary eyes to focus. There at the end of the hall stood a man Phil could easily identify, one Pierce had been sending against the Shieldton forces with ruthless efficiency.

“The Winter Soldier,” he murmured, almost without realizing he spoke aloud.

There was something strange though, Phil noticed. To a man, the few soldiers who had faced the Soldier and lived to tell about it had spoken of the Soldier’s emotionlessness in battle, of the control the warrior must have to remain so stone-faced even when under fire from enemy mages. The man who stood before him now was... less stoic. Or at least so the signs told Phil. The Soldier’s hands shook, almost imperceptibly, but enough that his crossbow wavered in its aim. And his eyes, gods help him, those eyes looked impossibly young and as shaken as a new recruit facing his first battle. At Phil’s side, Clint whined and his brow furrowed in a way that was painfully reminiscent of his human form. The Soldier flinched at the sound, the crossbow dropping to his side completely.

“I...” the Soldier began, so quietly that Phil strained to hear it. “I am... supposed to stop you.”

Clint growled deep in his throat and moved to place his powerful canine body between Phil and the Soldier. The other man flinched again at the movement, this time retreating a few steps as he did so.

“He, he told me to guard you. To stop you from leaving,” the Soldier said again, his voice stronger this time. His left hand, gleaming unnaturally in the dim light, clenched. The Soldier shook his head once, twice, and then straightened to face Phil more squarely. “He lied to me.”

“He what?” Phil asked, shocked into responding without thinking. The Soldier nodded, almost childishly defiance in the motion.

“There... there was a man on the field. He-he had a shield and stopped me from killing one of his men. He called me... He...” The Soldier shook his head again, as if shaking loose the words Phil knew he hadn’t been allowed in a very long time. “I knew him. The man. I knew him.”

There was only one warrior who carried only a shield into battle: the Crown Prince and heir of Avengian, Steven Rogers. For the Winter Soldier to know him... Clint whined again, but this time it was almost inquisitive, and his floppy ears perked up as he took a few tentative steps towards the other warrior. Phil’s mind raced, running through the intelligence reports he’d seen, mentally piecing through the rumors, until finally only one conclusion remained.

Prince James, Steven’s younger brother, missing since the start of the war and thought surely dead at the hands of the enemy. Phil had never met the younger prince, but there was something in the eyes, he thought, something that spoke of the kinship between the brothers.

“James,” Phil said softly, and the Soldier trembled.

“I knew him,” he repeated, and Phil nodded back. At that response, the Soldier’s hand clenched again and he looked away down the hall frantically as if looking for answers there. “I told him. My master. I told him! But he-he said I was wrong, that the man was unimportant, but...”

“But?” Phil asked, weakly stepping just forward to keep in contact with Clint.

“They taught me how to know when someone lied to me. They taught me and-and I saw a lie on him when he told me I was wrong.”

Phil tried to think of what to say to ease the other man’s confusion, but there wasn’t anything he could offer except- “You were right. If you are who I think you are, you do know him. And he knows you.”

The Soldier went painfully still for a long moment before he spoke again. “You. You could take me to him.”

Clint turned to cock his head at Phil, clearly as unsure of their choice of action as Phil was. “I could, yes.” He hesitated, hating to risk the fragile rapport between them, but knowing it had to be said. Alexander Pierce left little to chance; this could all too easily be a trap. “Will he be safe if I take you to him?”

“I…” the young man, Phil couldn’t look at his shaking hands and think of him as the Soldier any longer, hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t want to?”

Clint took the last few steps forward and nudged the young man’s knee softly. It seemed to surprise him, and he reached down to carefully stroke the Hound’s head with his artificial hand. Phil tried not to breathe and prayed Clint wouldn’t set off the Soldier’s conditioning. But he didn’t. Instead, after a few quiet moments, the young prince took a deep breath and stepped to the side, leaving the path down the hallway open.

“You should go. I can’t yet. I… You should go.” He waved Phil forward with the crossbow, nudging the dog away, as well.

Phil hesitated; it felt too easy of an escape. “There are no other guards, no other captives?”

James shook his head “No. He took his soldiers for a raid. Left me here as punishment for – for questioning him. Didn’t think anyone could get past me.”

He gave the faintest ghost of a smile, and Phil ached for the lad. “And the captives?”

The young prince’s gaze shuttered, and he hesitated before finally answering. “There aren’t any. They rarely stay human as long as you have.”

Once they’d passed him and gone a few steps farther down the hall, James spoke again. “Tell him…” Phil turned to look over his shoulder at the young man who seemed to be staring off into the distance. “Tell him I knew him. And I’ll see him soon. I’m not ready yet, but I will be.”

He fell silent again, and Phil and Clint made their way down the hall and to freedom without another word.

 

***

 

Phil didn’t remember much of the escape from Pierce’s stronghold or of their painstaking stalk through the forests and back across enemy lines to find their own forces. He didn’t remember passing out cold at the foot of one of their sentries either, and later he’d deny it ever happened.

That meant he didn’t remember telling the sentry just who the Hound was, or calling for his young sorceress ward so Jemma might aid in reversing the spell. He didn’t remember much at all for a solid day as he lay unconscious in the healers’ tents, his ordeal causing him to need far more rest than Phil would have ever willingly taken.

When Phil finally woke, it was dark in the tent, night having fallen. His vision was still a little hazy, the effects of the concussion lingering. At first, he couldn’t quite make out the shape pinning his legs to the cot; there was just the faintest hint of mussed sandy blonde hair or perhaps fur. He blinked once, twice, than the figure finally swam into focus.

Clint, his Clint. A Hound no longer and currently slumped half on the low cot clinging to Phil’s lap and half on the floor, sound asleep. Someone had wrapped him in one of the rough blankets that were standard kit for the Shieldton army, but he’d managed to wriggle free enough to wrap his bare arms across Phil’s legs.

Phil let out a shaky breath at the sight, and laid a hand carefully on his lover’s head.

He’d let him sleep, Phil decided. The morning would come soon enough.


End file.
